


Clean Day

by morthael



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Feral Keith (Voltron), Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 07, a little cracky but also a little heartfelt, but not what you think it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27489745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morthael/pseuds/morthael
Summary: Keith looks faintly sweaty, and his breathing seems a little ragged. There’s a gleam of something yellow in his eyes and the tone of his voice betrays something slightly, vaguely panicky.Months after moving into a one bedroom apartment with Keith, Shiro's still struggling with the concept of domesticity.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95





	Clean Day

**Author's Note:**

> this is an upload of my [fic thread](https://twitter.com/anuveon/status/1322366127251447808) about feral housewife keith which was inspired from a headcanon from that one viral tweet about the existence of a domestic housewife implying the existence of a feral housewife.

Domestic bliss, Shiro thinks, has always been this novel thing in this mind. Not something he thought about at all, during the war, and not something he’d thought he’d get a chance to have, before.

It’s why he’s in this cautious state of nirvana in the shared apartment he has with Keith. They’ve cultivated a pattern – both generally busy with Garrison or Coalition or Blade activities during the day, then swapping off cooking every other night. Shiro makes their shared bed with military precision, because Keith, bless him, would leave the covers rumpled with his honest attempts otherwise.

Shiro does the dishes, because Keith’s got this hang-up about the amount of cutlery and crockery they own and could live off disposable plates and plastic forks (sporks, Keith’s told him before with deathly solemn sincerity, are the most space-efficient and useful type).

Keith does the laundry, sniffing disbelievingly over the amount of laundry powder Shiro prefers to use; fabric softener, Shiro learned one month into tentative cohabitation, was a new combination of words to him.

Shiro folds the clothes, because Keith can fly a hulking magic space cat through a field of a billion sharp asteroids without a scratch, but he hasn’t the patience to align one seam with another and all of his attempts land woefully short of the crisp squares of fabric Shiro’s lived with all his life.

Which is not to say that Shiro dislikes living with Keith. The mild domestic mishaps and joking (but not?) complaints about Keith leaving his dirty jeans on the floor of their bedroom and not in the laundry basket for the fifth time in a row are actually the closest thing to enforced normalcy Shiro’s felt in his whole life.

Which is why he’s loath to breaking the spell and actually giving voice to the weird little thing in the back of his mind.

Which is why he’s taken aback when he opens the door to the apartment, and it’s…glowing.

“Keith, I’m…home…?” Shiro says, and it comes out like a question because really, it is.

The logical part of his brain is aware that Keith has been home all week, on shore leave while he waits for his next brief from Kolivan. The part he’s stuck on is reconciling that with the sparkling floorboards, the stack of neatly folded laundry sitting innocently on their couch (the couch cushions fluffed up and arranged tastefully).

The kitchen countertop is gleaming in a way Shiro didn’t think was possible, and Keith is…crouched in the corner of the apartment, waving a bright pink feather duster back and forth. Shiro didn’t know they even owned a feather duster.

Keith whips around as Shiro tentatively approaches, rising into a half crouch. He’s wearing the apron Shiro bought two weeks after moving in, but never ended up using because the buttons didn’t fully reach around his back. There’s a smidge of dust on his nose.

“Stop!”

Shiro pauses, utterly bewildered.

“I just swept and mopped this floor,” Keith says with burning intensity, “And it was hard because there was all this dirty stuff in the grout, and the tiles are still wet so if you come any closer it’s gonna – it’s an occupational hazard.”

Keith looks faintly sweaty, and his breathing seems a little ragged. There’s a gleam of something yellow in his eyes and the tone of his voice betrays something slightly, vaguely panicky.

Shiro frowns. “Keith – ”

Keith swears. “You’re home early,” he informs Shiro like the fact has personally insulted him, and bustles past him, setting the feather duster down on the counter jerkily with a clatter. A second later, he looks down, and straightens it apologetically. “Shit. I still need to clean the bathroom, and take out the rubbish – ”

“Keith,” Shiro interrupts exasperatedly. “What’s going on? This…this,” he waves his human hand around. He can almost see himself fully reflected in the counter. This is so far out of his admittedly small experience of domesticity that he doesn’t know what to say. “I wasn’t expecting…this, coming home.”

Keith’s brow furrows. “I was cleaning the apartment.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, still perplexed. “I can see that. Why?”

Unexpectedly, Keith’s face falls.

“Look,” Keith says grimly, “You’re busy all during the day, right? And it would suck coming home to have to do more work. And I know that – that I’m not the best housemate, I can tell you h – don’t like the mess around the place.” He takes a breath, squaring his jaw and steeling his shoulders defiantly. “So the least I can do is try to make things easier. You don’t have to worry about this kinda stuff. Anymore.”

“So let me – ” Keith makes a move to get past Shiro, eyes trained in the direction of the bathroom, but Shiro gently boxes him in, and yeah, there’s definitely a flash of something wild in Keith’s eyes. He’s so riled up he bares his sharp teeth at Shiro before he knows what he’s doing, flushing red.

Shiro puts his hand on Keith’s shoulders “Keith, this isn’t a burden we both have to have,” he says hesitantly. His other hand passes over his face, and he softly laughs. Keith’s face shutters in confusion.

“I mean,” Shiro says, “I think both of us kind of have the wrong idea about all this. I’m not – I’m not angry at you or think you’re not pulling your weight. And you don’t need to go all out like – this.” He sweeps a hand around the apartment.

“Not that I don’t like it!” Shiro adds quickly when Keith doesn’t say anything. “Because I do. I’m amazed you’ve managed to do this all in a day.”

Keith brightens. “It’s good?” he says, and Shiro can’t help but pull him into a hug. Keith melts into him, like he always does, and the noise he makes when Shiro rubs a hand across his back is as close to a purr as a half human, half Galra can get.

“Yeah, Keith,” Shiro says. “It’s good. It’s more than good. It’s perfect.”

Keith makes a sound of contentment.

Shiro draws back just enough so that he can land a soft kiss on Keith’s forehead. Keith’s eyes are closed already, but the last of the furrow in his brow eases at the touch of Shiro’s lips.

“But I don’t expect perfection,” Shiro continues quietly, nosing into Keith’s hair. “I kinda like it, the way we are. I think that’s normal. I like that.”

“Mmm.” Keith seems to accept this, looping his arms around Shiro’s neck, drawing him in for another kiss, this time on the lips. They stay like that for a while.

Then, Keith rises up on his toes, his mouth on Shiro’s ear.

“Roast dinner is in the oven,” he whispers, and Shiro feels the gravity of it tingle down his spine.

And, well.

Shiro doesn’t really know what domestic bliss looks like, but he’s okay, very okay with this version that he shares with Keith. 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://morthael.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/anuveon)
> 
> AND HERE'S THE ART I DREW FOR THIS FIC LOL: [1](https://twitter.com/anuveon/status/1323180530645360640) [2](https://twitter.com/anuveon/status/1323225551197229056)


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